I think I may have been mistaken for a lesbian Saturday night.
There’s no one to blame but myself, really. I was in a lesbian bar. I have short hair, as my photo will indicate. And I was sipping a Budweiser straight from the bottle.
Here’s how it happened.
I knew I was headed for a lesbian bar that night. The reason was to hear some great live music.
So I called the only person I knew who could quell my fears, answer my questions and, most importantly, tell me what to wear.
A dear female friend from college who dated a woman.
But damnit, she wasn’t near her cell phone. I left a voicemail.
After showering, I stood in front of my open closet, wracking my brain while trying to determine what I should wear. What doesn’t look lesbian? What makes me retain every ounce of my precious femininity to the point of surplus?
Anticipating the evening, I painted my fingernails a sweet-as-sugar pink color earlier in the day. I also decided on pearl stud earrings, regardless of my wardrobe choice.
Before my gal pal returned my frantic phone call, I selected my new red shoes, my skinny jeans and a red chiffon blouse with white polka dots.
When she called — mind you, she was laughing when I answered the phone upon retrieving the voicemail I left her — I described my clothing choice.
“Girl,” she said (a noun she loves to use and one I love to hear) “anything described as a blouse will totally signal you’re not gay.”
In my idiotic state, I also asked what I should do if a fellow female offered to buy me a drink.
“Just tell her thanks, but that you’re straight,” she replied without skipping a beat. “Lesbians are some of the most honest people you’ll ever meet. They won’t think twice of it.”
I arrived at the bar, located in the seedy perimeter of downtown Omaha, where I was looked over by the woman collecting cash at the front door. I forked over my $3, pulled quickly from my shiny red clutch while consciously flashing my pink fingernails, and bellied up to the bar.
The whole evening, while mulling about the bar, I felt everyone’s eyes were on me. I can’t say for certain, but methinks I was the only straight women inside the place that night.
A few lesbians approached me, two of whom were inebriated beyond belief, to make small talk.
Then, the he/she walked in the door.
It was clearly a man, baby, but with long, curly hair, some type of cosmetics plastered about his/her face, a lime green tank top and matching shrug. The ensemble was complete with too-tight jeans that rode below his/her expanding gut and showed much too much of his/her ass crack.
I was pretty paranoid that he/she would approach me, as I stood by myself part of the evening.
My paranoia transformed into cold, hard reality when he/she approached.
Dizzy from too much booze paired with the inability to walk in heels, he/she yelled in my face, “Come dance with me. Come dance with me!”
It was all I could do not to assume the fetal position on the floor, but something told me that carpet had seen better days … and fewer stains.
“Oh, you should dance with your boyfriend,” I shouted back, assuming the portly gentleman who held her in all the right places earlier that night was, in fact, her betrothed.
“Oh, he’s not my boyfriend! He’s not my boyfriend!”
It was as if my suggestion had offended him/her and increased volume would most certainly guarantee an affirmative response.
“I WANT TO DANCE WITH YOU!”
It was at that point that said gentleman ushered to his sweetheart’s side and whisked him/her away, leaving no time for me to answer his/her question.
Thanks God for that.
Driving home that night, I realized how silly the whole evening would sound when recounted in the harsh light of daybreak. But when you’re at a lesbian bar for the first time, stories take on different (and often more colorful) shadows and angles.
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